


The more things change

by Monna99



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, Slight AU: Time is the same but Carwood never goes to war, boys falling in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21715408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monna99/pseuds/Monna99
Summary: Carwood Lipton helps his mother run a boarding house. He gets to meet all sorts of interesting people.
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 18
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

The crack of thunder outside makes Lip glance up from his notes. It’s still afternoon but the sky is dark with overstuffed clouds. That wouldn’t matter, but the rain that pours down keeps visibility to a dangerous low. Poor weather generally means a full house for them as people stop and seek safety out of the elements but, one week after Thanksgiving, travelers are pretty much safely back in their homes. Thus far, they’ve only had one elderly man check in, unwilling to brave the storm. That makes three guests total that they’re currently housing, and Mr. Tyler will likely be moving on in the morning. Lip worries the end of his pen, frowning over the numbers. They aren’t doing so great. There have been less lodgers lately, and less lodgers means less money. He may need to find additional work soon if this keeps up, though he’s not entirely sure when he’ll have the time to spare — looking after the boarding house takes up his days and even some nights. 

He sighs, wishing the rain would clear. He’d planned to start on patching up the roof but the weather that’s assailed them since early morning is predicted to last through the week. It means he’s stuck inside feeling restless and useless instead. The rooms have already been cleaned, fresh linens on the beds and hot coffee set out in the living area for the guests that haven’t come. 

The opening of the door makes him glance up. There’s a man shaking off his olive drab coat standing on the welcome mat. He’s tall and lean and when he removes his hat to reveal dark hair that curls in gentle waves, Lip realizes he’s handsome as well. 

That dark head lifts and eyes of indeterminate color light on him. “Do you have a room available?” he asks, voice a bit gruff, like maybe he doesn’t talk much. 

“We do,” Lip confirms. “Is it for just yourself or will your wife be joining you?”

Something about what he says makes the man’s lips twitch, though Lip doesn’t think he’s amused. “No,” he responds, evenly enough, “it’s just for me. I don’t know yet how long I’ll be staying, but it won’t be long. Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all,” Lip returns, though his heart sinks just a bit. Long-term boarders are the best source of steady income. “I have a room with a single bed that should suit you.” He pulls the log book as the man approaches. “The rate is fifteen dollars per week and that includes two meals a day.” His school books are still spread out on the desk so he closes them and pushes them to one side, seeing the man’s eyes flick over the titles. It’s then he notices what he’d missed before: the man is walking with a cane, leaning on it heavily. Lip doesn’t ask. There are many men returning from the war wounded in some way or another. It makes him think of his brother and pray, yet again, that he comes back in one piece. “May I have your name, sir?”

Those eyes — Lip can make out that they are hazel now that the man stands directly before him — focus on him with somewhat unnerving directness. “Ronald Speirs,” he says. He reaches into his wallet and pulls out fifteen dollars in cash. “And you are …?”

Lip writes down the name and pulls the key for a first floor room. “Carwood Lipton. I’ll show you to your room.” He steps around the narrow desk, noticing the lack of personal effects. “Will you need help with your bags, Mr. Speirs?”

The man — Speirs — already seems to have dismissed his presence. “No. I’ll retrieve them later myself.”

Lipton nods and shows the man to his room. It’s small, no more than a bed, a small dresser, a desk and a night table with a reading lamp, but it’s clean and warm and Lip looks around seeing it through a stranger’s eyes, pride welling within him. Speirs chooses that moment to look over his shoulder and he nods as though hearing what Lip doesn’t say. 

“It’s a fine room,” he murmurs.

Lip only then notices the way he’s holding himself too stiffly, too rigid, hand clenched around the handle of his cane, knuckles white with the strain. His face loses color, a tremor beginning at his leg and Lip lunges forward in time to brace Speirs up just as his leg gives out from under him, cane clattering to the floor. Sweat peppers the man’s forehead, his breathing becoming more labored, teeth gritted.

“Damnation,” he mutters angrily. 

They’re close, so close that Lip sees the lines of worry at the corners of the man’s eyes making him look older than Lip knows he must be. “Let’s get you on the bed,” he murmurs, shifting his arm to better support the other man. 

Speirs gives a sharp nod and together they get him seated on the mattress. The move makes Lip’s back twinge warningly and he has to brace himself with one hand on the bed, steeling himself against the inevitable pain. After a moment, he straightens to find Speirs watching him. 

“All right?” he asks gruffly.

Lip nods. “You?”

Speirs’s head dips, eyes not missing the tense way the other man is standing. Lip waits for the question; it always comes: Where did you serve? He should be inoculated against it by now but shame scalds his insides every time he has to repeat his answer. But Speirs simply sets his hat down, uninterested in prying. It makes for a refreshing change. 

He retrieves the cane and sets it against the bed. “Dinner will be served at five,” he tells Speirs, and closes the door quietly behind him.

Speirs doesn’t join them for dinner and it makes Carwood restless and unhappy however much he tries to put it out of his mind. The man must have served in the war. He’s the right age, the right sex, and he’s fit. There’s also the look in his eyes, something detached and hopeless, ruthless and angry like maybe he hasn’t stopped fighting the war yet. The cane could be the result of a battle wound, though Lip knows first-hand that’s not always the case.

“ … --arwood?”

His head jerks up and he realizes he hasn’t heard a word around him. “Sorry, Mama. You were saying?”

She smiles at him, puzzled. “You were gathering wool, Carwood. It’s unlike you.”

“Sorry, Mama.”

“I was saying that I’ll be heading to the post office tomorrow. Do you need me to bring you anything?”

Carwood frowns thoughtfully, glancing out the window at the sheets of rain still coming down. “Mama, I don’t like the thought of you out in this weather.” And to make matters worse, their sole vehicle seems to have reached the end of its life. It will need a new alternator to ever function again and those require the kind of money that they do not possess at the moment. 

“Now don’t you fuss, Carwood, I will be perfectly fine.” 

His Mama’s expression is set and he’s well aware of how determined she can be. She’s getting on in years but she makes the trips into town so that he doesn’t have to. The long walks tend to leave him stiff and aching for days afterward. 

If only … 

But there’s no point in thinking of what-ifs and could-have-beens. He’s learned to do the best he can in his situation. “There are some things I need, but I’ll have to go myself. You stay home, Mama.”

She must see something in his expression because she doesn’t object. She stands and pats his shoulder as she moves to refill the coffee pot. “All right, Carwood. More coffee?”

The men nod and thank her as they finish up their meals. Carwood glances again toward the hallway that leads to the rooms but there is no sound and no movement. 

_Therefore, one face is parallel to the observer and only set …_

Carwood huffs out an impatient breath, realizing that it’s the fourth time he’s read the same sentence. His head is somewhere else entirely. He glances up but there’s no light coming from Mr. Speirs’s room. Had he fallen asleep immediately after getting in? It’s nearly eight-thirty at night and he hasn’t seen the man exit his room at all. Not that he’s keeping track, but … well … Speirs is clearly still recuperating from whatever happened to him and Carwood is willing to bet that the _something_ has to do with the war. It’s not right to let a man who served his country go hungry. Lip simply can’t allow that. Decidedly, he closes his book and heads to the kitchen. 

The extra plate he’d fixed earlier sits at the back of the ice box. He heats up the food on the stove and goes to knock on Speirs’s door, calling himself ten kinds of fool the whole way. He raps his knuckles against the solid wood, not so loud that it’ll wake Speirs if he’s sleeping, but loud enough to get his attention if he’s not. Almost immediately a light blazes to life, its streaks casting a glow around the door. He’s sure, suddenly, that this is a mistake but it’s too late. The door swings open and Speirs fills the doorway. 

Well, not quite. He’s actually rather slim, on the side of too thin like maybe he hasn’t been eating properly, but his presence is larger than the sum of him. Lipton doesn’t quite know why that is, or if it’s simply in his head, but he can’t deny that he finds the man imposing. 

Speirs leans on the doorframe and Lipton remembers too late that he might still be having difficulty standing. 

“I’m sorry—” he begins, tray held awkwardly between them, but Speirs shakes his head sharply, waving away his apology.

“Something wrong?”

“No, not all all.” He proffers the tray, letting go when Speirs takes it automatically. “You missed dinner.”

Speirs stares down at the food like he doesn’t know what to make of it. He tilts his head, consideringly. “I didn’t realize you also offered room service.”

Lip opens his mouth to correct him but he catches the twinkle of amusement in the man’s eyes just in time. “We do. I’ll add the after-hours fee, gas fee, reheating fee, convenience fee and delivery fee to your bill,” he replies in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. “Not to mention that a man as debonair as you will tip generously, I’m sure.”

Speirs begins looking dazed about half-way through his little speil and it’s all Lip can do to keep a serious expression. His poker face cracks after only a few seconds and he begins to laugh. Speirs looks surprised before his lips twitch in a grin. It may be overly generous to call it a grin, but he definitely looks unwillingly amused. “Debonair? Really?”

Lip wills himself not to flush and clears his throat. “Just teasing,” he says lightly. “I thought you might be hungry.” He nods to the tray that Speirs holds as his right hand grips the cane. It seems the short rest has been good for him. He looks much better. 

There’s a struggle happening behind those hazel eyes, but finally Speirds nods, “I am,” he admits, allowing himself that much vulnerability.

Lip stands awkwardly a moment longer, but there’s no more to say. He’s certainly not going to invite himself into Speirs’s room. The thought makes something flutter within him and he steps back abruptly. “Well, good night. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Lipton.”

He glances back.

Speirs polishes off his manners long enough to add, “Thank you.”

Lip grins. “Next time, I expect a tip.”

He wakes, back aching. It happens sometimes when he overdoes it or when it’s about to rain. He could probably make some side dough in forecasting. He stretches but freezes as his muscles threaten to seize. After a few seconds he releases the breath he’s holding and tentatively shifts again, sighing in relief as the pain recedes. 

The rain is still beating a loud, uneven drum outside as he finishes dressing. He’ll start breakfast a bit early so that he can get a headstart on the walk into town. If he’s fast, he should be able to make it back in time to start fixing the upstairs bathroom before helping Mama with dinner. 

He steps outside to head around the house to collect some chicken eggs but stops short at the sight that greets him. Sitting on the porch railing is Speirs, cane propped against his leg, smoking a cigarette in the cool, early morning, watching the sheets of rain. 

Lip doesn’t move, feeling unaccountably hesitant. “Mr. Speirs, good morning.”

Speirs’s gaze flicks to him in acknowledgement before shifting away. He doesn’t respond. The stiff way he holds himself along with the tight, pained expression speak to more than mere exhaustion.

Lip glances at the skies. “You feel it in your bones, right?”

He sees Speirs’s head turn back toward him. 

“But it’s not the pain that bothers you.”

He expects the question now. He shouldn’t have said anything, should have kept his mouth shut, but he doesn’t regret it, not even if Speirs looks at him with the same pitying, condescending disappointment others do at his answer. 

But again, Speirs doesn’t ask. Maybe it’s not kindness or understanding, maybe he simply doesn’t care enough. His gaze is steady as he breathes out the cigarette smoke. Lip doesn’t expect him to respond, but after a few minutes he says quietly, “No, it’s not the pain.”

The softly-spoken words feel monumental. They feel like trust. He knows, without needing to ask, that Speirs is not the type given to confidences.

There’s nothing more after that and Lip knows Speirs will not reveal more. He’s not sure why he feels the need to know. Speirs is a stranger that will be gone all too soon. He opens up the umbrella and steps out, ignoring the other man as he goes about his business, collecting eggs and picking a few apples from the tree in the yard. It’s still too early to start breakfast —no one will be awake for another hour at least — so he sets to cleaning the common area and puts a large vat of water to boil to soak towels for washing when he returns. He sorts the mail, separates the bills, and takes note of what he needs to buy for the week. There’s great speculation that the war will be over by the end of the month — though Carwood doesn’t put much stock in that. People have been predicting the end of the war for two years. In the meantime, rationing is still in effect so there will be no butter until next week and they are running low on milk and cheese. That’s okay, Mrs. Davis has an excellent dairy cow and she trades with them for flour and sugar. 

By the time he hears movement coming from the rooms, it’s nearly seven. It’s the perfect time to start breakfast. Just as the thought forms, he hears the front door open and the click of a cane on the hard-wood floor.

He ignores the sudden uptick of his heartbeat and sets a pan to heat. The kitchen is silent except for his movements as he works but he knows Speirs is watching him, can feel that steady regard. 

“You cook?”

Other guests — mostly men, but a few women as well — have posed the same question, but there’s no disbelieving condemnation in Speirs’s tone, unlike those others. Lip has no patience for those who try to belittle his efforts to help his mother as much as possible. “I do,” he responds, somewhat curtly, still waiting for what will follow. 

“That’s a useful skill.”

Lip is so surprised he nearly drops the mold with the dough that he’d been about to slide into the oven. He turns to Speirs, unable to hide his astonishment. He isn’t ashamed of being able to cook, he knows damn well it’s a useful skill, but being in the kitchen is considered women’s work and plenty of people let him know it. “Not too many people see it that way,” he returns mildly. 

Speirs meets his gaze squarely. “They’re fools.”

Lip doesn’t bother to bite back a grin and he motions toward the table. “Take a seat, the coffee will be ready in five.”

Breakfast is the most pleasant it’s been in years and Lip tries not to analyze the reason too closely. He stays just a bit longer than he should, enjoying the conversation going on around him. He smiles, hiding his laugh behind a cough, as his Mama presses Speirs to eat more, telling him that he’s too skinny. Speirs throws a droll look his way but dutifully holds his plate out for his mama to pile on more food. Unfortunately, Lip really does need to get going, so he stands, picking up the guests’ empty plates. 

“Carwood,” his mama says, admonishing, “you leave those now, I’ll take care of the clean-up here. Go on your business.”

“It’s no trouble, Mama,” he says, but she clucks her tongue and shakes her head. 

“Put those down, I said.”

Lip glances at Speirs but the man offers no support, only grins into his coffee. He takes a drink then throws in his unhelpful two cents, “You should know better than to argue with your mother.”

“And you should know better than to challenge the man who makes the coffee,” he tosses back.

Fink, a man on the wrong side of forty chortles and says to Speirs, “That would be a more effective threat if his coffee weren’t terrible.” He takes a sip and shudders as Mr. Tyler chuckles. 

“Don’t you fret, Carwood, your coffee always puts a pep in my step,” Mrs. Thomason defends, refilling her cup.

“Certainly woke me up,” Speirs agrees. 

Lip huffs, hiding a grin. “As fun as this is, I have errands to run. I will see you all this afternoon.” As the words leave his mouth, his stomach drops. He actually doesn’t know if he’ll see Speirs later. The man might take off before he makes it back. After all, he’d said that he didn’t know how long he’d stay. Lip’s gaze seeks him, and, to his relief, Speirs nods back in agreement. It’s ridiculous, but he’s not ready to never see this man again. 

He kisses his mama on the cheek and grabs his wallet and an umbrella from the foyer. The rain hasn’t let up at all, but getting a little wet won’t harm him. It seems no one else is willing to brave the elements on foot. The sidewalks are deserted and only a few lone cars pass him by. 

He makes it one hundred or so yards down the road before a horn sounds and a car nearly careens onto the sidewalk as it pulls over just ahead of him. Lip opens his mouth to berate the careless idiot as he reaches the vehicle when the passenger door is thrown open and Speirs frowns at him, yelling, “Get in!”

Speechless, he does, shutting the door and muffling the sound of the pouring rain. 

Quiet settles between them. 

“You’re a terrible driver,” Lip says, finally.

Speirs snorts, hands loose on the steering wheel as he watches Carwood. “Why didn’t you mention that your car isn’t running?” he demands.

Carwood raises an eyebrow. “Why would I?” He sees Speirs still at that. The man opens and closes his mouth on several responses, looking disgruntled at being challenged. Lip shakes his head slightly, taking pity on him. “Did you come this way just to offer me a ride?”

Speirs puts the car in gear, pulling away. “Of course not,” he answers readily. “I was planning on going into town. Since you’re headed that way, I thought you could be my guide. It’ll avoid wasting time.”

Lip settles back into the seat, hiding a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the first chapter! Let me know your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

Traveling by car is definitely preferable to walking. Lip sinks into the opulence of the seat, its velvety leather feeling sinful against the pads of his fingers as he caresses it. “Very nice,” he comments, glancing sideways at Speirs. “How on earth did you manage to come by a vehicle like this?”

A grin quirks the man’s lips and he says, “Courtesy of a Kraut general.” Lip raises a questioning eyebrow and Speirs throws a wicked glance his way. “I looted his place and found his Luger along with some gold and a hefty amount of silver. A buddy of mine auctioned it all off for me and I bought this beauty.” 

It’s the first time he’s even hinted at serving during the war. Lip is curious. He wants to ask, of course he does; he wants to learn more about Speirs, but he won’t pry. “Looted?” he queries instead. 

Speirs shrugs, looking unrepentant as he maneuvers through the downtown traffic. “The war in Europe’s pretty much over. Nothing left to do but make sure you get yours.”

It’s a rather grim view of what they’re meant to be doing overseas, but then Lip supposes that war is a grim business. “Is that true then, that the war is nearly over? We’ve been hearing that since it started. Hard to believe it might be real this time.”

Speirs brakes at a red light, gaze going distant for a moment. “I suppose, but Germany is definitely going to be throwing in the towel at any moment. Soldiers had begun to surrender in droves by the time I was out of commission. We weren’t prepared for their sudden capitulation.”

It’s recent then, his injury. Lip opens his mouth before he’s fully considered what he’s about to say. “How did you get hurt?” He kicks himself the moment the words pass his lips. The effect on Speirs is instantaneous. His expression closes and the easy atmosphere in the car vanishes. 

“Where do you want me to drop you?” he asks, ignoring the question altogether.

Lip winces and gives Speirs the directions, silent as the man pulls up along the building. He doesn’t know how to bridge the sudden distance between them. “Thanks,” he murmurs, finally, unable to think of anything else to say. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

That gets Speirs’s attention and he turns his head, frowning at Lipton. “No. Tell me what time I should be here to pick you up.”

Lip shakes his head as he reaches for the door handle. “You don’t need to do that.”

Speirs’s frown deepens. “I’m aware I don’t need to do that. Tell me what time I should be here.” His tone — and that fierce gaze — brooks no argument.

“You must have had a command in the time you served,” Lip guesses drolly. “I get the feeling you’re expecting me to jump-to and salute you.”

That earns him a sharp grin and Speirs inclines his head in acknowledgement. “That’s right. I don’t tolerate my orders being questioned, Lipton. Best you learn that now.”

Carwood actually laughs, making Speirs’s grin stretch as he steps out of the car and leans down to simply say, “Noon,” before opening the umbrella and stepping back. 

“Carwood, I have the oils your mother ordered the last time she was here,” Mr. Fremont calls to him as Lip pushes open the door, the cheerful little bell jingling a welcome. 

“She’ll be happy to hear that,” he replies. 

Mr. Halsh turns to him eagerly from chatting with the store owner, “Son, are you going to use the ration card for your gasoline this week?”

Lip nearly answers in the negative again. Since their old clunker had given up the ghost, Lipton’s had no need of gasoline and he’s been helping out some of his elderly neighbors by giving them his cards. He stops himself just in time, however, remembering the ride into town. “I’ll be using it this week, Mr. Halsh,” he confirms. 

It doesn’t take him all that long to complete his shopping and he leaves his packages at the store to cross to the post office so he can mail his and his mama’s letters. They both write to Robert religiously, but his brother’s responses have been more and more sporadic. It would be a lie to say it doesn’t worry him, but he tries to keep a positive front for his mother.

He’s crossing the street when a familiar car pulls up. “I take it you haven’t had lunch,” Speirs calls out, rolling down his window. The rain has temporarily let up and a rainbow paints the sky. It lifts Lip’s spirits and he’s happy in a way he’s never quite been before. 

He steps close to the car window, smiling down at Speirs. “I haven’t,” he agrees.

“Mmm.” Speirs looks away, something like a flush staining his cheeks. “I heard there’s a place nearby that makes a mean chicken pot pie. Been a while since I had one.”

The bubble of happiness within Lip expands, “That’d be Johnson’s Pies on Garner Street. They make delicious mincemeat pies, but they’re especially well-known for their chicken pot pie.”

Spiers nods and leans over to open the passenger door. “Let’s go.”

Carwood has no desire to object. “Sure, let me pick up my things and I’ll be back.” 

They lunch at Johnson’s Pies, their knees brushing under the too-small table. Lip pretends not to notice and leaves his leg pressed to the other man’s. Speirs doesn’t pull away and a small thrill runs through Lip. He feigns absorption in the menu, not meeting Speirs’s gaze. 

“Carwood, how nice to see you,” Mrs. Johnson greets as she comes out of the kitchen. They both stand as they wait for her to finish with her customers, and Carwood tugs her into a hug once she makes her way over to them. He’s known her since he was a kid, since his father would occasionally save up a little extra for a bite to eat at Johnson’s Pies. She would always give him a sweet afterwards and ruffle his hair. “It’s been too long,” she declares, voice suddenly a little choked up. 

He tightens his arms around her, realizing that he hasn’t been by in years. She’s aged, grown more fragile in that time. “It has,” he concedes softly. “How have you been, Mrs. Johnson? How’s Betsy?”

“Can’t complain, son,” she says, releasing him, smiling, “we’re both carrying on. Spry as a pair of billy goats the two of us.”

He laughs and turns to Ron who’s watching them, a curious expression on his face. “Mrs. Johnson, this is Ronald Speirs. Ron, this is Mrs. Johnson, the owner of Johnson’s Pies and the best chicken pot pie this side of the Ohio River.”

“Flatterer,” Mrs. Johnson accuses Carwood, her grin widening, “but you’re not wrong.”

“Mrs. Johnson, it’s a pleasure,” Ron greets, bowing and kissing her hand. It makes the old woman blush to the roots of her hair and laugh delightedly. 

“What a gentleman! Just like you, Carwood. It’s nice to see you have such cordial friends. Now sit, you two. I’ll have my girl out here in a minute.”

“This is beautiful country,” Speirs comments after they place their orders. “I love the city, but it’s nothing like this. All this wide open space.”

Lipton looks out the wall of windows at the gentle hills and the trees that line the streets, beautiful browns and greens as far as the eye can see. “Yes,” he agrees, and, looking back at Speirs, notices again the striking hazel of his eyes, “I’ve always been grateful to have grown up here.” He stares into that intense gaze, finding it difficult to look away, “I love the rich colors. They remind me of life.”

Speirs glances outside and nods, not looking at Carwood. “I’m finding myself particularly fond of dark brown lately,” he agrees softly, almost too soft to hear, and Lipton flushes darkly, wondering if he’s making too much of the comment. 

He clears his throat and asks, “What brought you to Huntington, Mr. Speirs?”

Speirs grimaces and shakes his head. “Please don’t call me that. It’s Ron.”

Warmth suffuses Lip and he nods, “Then, of course, you have to call me Carwood, Ron.”

The other man flicks a glance his way and says, “Christ, you remind me of Dick.”

“Dick?”

Ron blows out a sharp breath. He’s silent for long moments, long enough that Lip doesn’t think he’ll answer, but, finally, he says, “Major Richard Winters of the 101st Airborne Division. Dick.” His lips twist into something that isn’t quite a smile, something longing, nostalgic. “He was my commanding officer for a short time. Good man. That’s what you are, Carwood, a good man.”

His words are complimentary, but the tone is not quite right. “Did you like him?” There’s something cheerless about Ron’s expression, a strange shadow that crosses his features. 

“Like him?” Speirs tilts his head considering, gaze too intense. It makes Lipton want to look away, but he’s caught, frozen. “I suppose I did. I do.”

“But ...?” Lip prompts.

Ron shrugs, the shadow dispelling. “He’s a great soldier and even better commander, no one can doubt that, but he’s too soft.”

“So you think I’m soft?” Speirs winces but Lip only laughs. “Why do I get the feeling you were a holy terror to your men?” 

Speirs grins. “I’m sure they like to think so. Do you?” Speirs looks as surprised as Lip feels at having asked. 

“Do I think you were a holy terror?” Lip gives the question earnest consideration. He might be a bit biased given that he likes Speirs — too much — but he doesn’t think he’s wrong when he says, “No, you seem tough but fair. You wouldn’t have asked your men to do anything that you wouldn’t have been willing to do yourself.” He grins. “In fact, I imagine you might have charged ahead of everyone else.”

Speirs looks at him, astonished, before glancing away, not agreeing, nor refuting. 

Lip takes the time to study him. Speirs really is handsome, but more than the simple accident of bone structure, it’s the determination, the strength, and, yes, the kindness that make it a beautiful face. 

“You’re staring,” Speirs murmurs softly.

Lip nearly apologizes, but he bites back the words and says instead, “Yes, does it bother you?”

Speirs’s gaze clashes with his, tangling. “No, but it generally bothers people when I stare.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Carwood replies, and has to swallow when Speirs’s gaze drops to his lips. 

The moment is broken when their food arrives and Lip has an instant of regret until he feels Ron’s legs stretch out and bracket his under the table. He ducks his head, unable to bite back a smile and tucks into his food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter down. I'm really enjoying writing this one <3! Thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

“Carwood.” The tone is low, even. 

Lip opens his eyes, realizing that at some point he’d fallen into a light doze in the passenger seat. The inside of the car is warm and that, coupled with the heaviness of the food and his lack of sleep, has left him lethargic. “Hmm?” He sits up, noticing they are turning into the driveway. The gravel bites the tires as Ron presses the brake pedal and they roll to a stop, silence filling the space between them. Neither moves and the seconds stretch. Carwood’s heart ticks up several beats, suddenly wide awake. It’s broad daylight and they’re in full view of the house. There is absolutely no way anything will happen. Nothing can happen. And Carwood is not wishing for it with shameful desperation. His swallow in the quiet is much too loud. 

The atmosphere in the car is becoming stifling, and it’s not just him, it can’t just be him. He sees Ron’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and his breath stalls in his throat before the other man swears and throws open the door, awkwardly, self-consciously shuffling out.

Carwood takes a moment to breathe and gather his scattered wits. He steps out and waves when he sees his mother step out onto the porch, pretending he doesn’t see Ron rubbing at his leg as he moves to take the bags out of the trunk. 

By the time the items have been unloaded, Ron is able to climb the stairs and he heads inside to take a seat in the living area by the fire without a look or word for Carwood. That’s fine, there’s no space now to talk, but they will talk. Carwood needs them to talk. He intends to pull Ron aside in the evening, but work around the boardinghouse keeps him busy and by the time dinner is finished, Ron has disappeared back into his room. 

Because they live on the outskirts of town, it’s not uncommon for people to dump their undesired pets practically in the Lipton backyard. Lip has grown up caring for injured animals, so it’s second nature to simply pick up the small shivering mass when he comes across it and place it inside his jacket. He heads back to the house and finds some slices of leftover ham to feed the mewling thing. _It’s not enough to be missed_ , Lip justifies guiltily as he takes it out. 

He steps outside and pulls the kitten from his jacket. It clings to his shirt, its claws digging into his skin. “Come on, you’re all right,” he soothes. He pries it off and sets it on the ground, tearing the ham into smaller pieces. “Here.” 

The kitten approaches warily and gives the ham a cautious sniff before taking a finicky bite. 

Lip chuckles as he squats down. “Hey, you don’t get to turn your nose up at free food,” he chides.

He doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t know anyone is there until he hears the click of a lighter and the scrape of a foot on the wooden deck. “You’re kind.” The voice has become familiar, welcome. 

Speirs is watching him from the porch, cigarette between his lips. The words would be a compliment from anyone else, but Lip’s not sure Speirs means them as such. Lip shrugs. “Anyone would do as much.”

He wishes he didn’t understand the bitter twist to the man’s lips but he thinks he does. Speirs hasn’t said a word about his injury but those cool, cynical eyes speak volumes. “No,” Ron disagrees, “not everyone would.”

He doesn’t quite know what to make of that, doesn’t want to ask Ron what he would do, Lip’s not sure he’d like the answer. Instead, he looks down at the kitten, smiling as the silly little thing rubs up against his thigh where he crouches. “He’s friendly,” he says, glancing up. “Would you like to pet him?”

The last thing he expects is for Speirs to take him up on his offer. The man descends the stairs much too quickly given that he’s still using a cane. He seems fairly adroit with it, which Lip takes to mean that he must have put a serious strain on his leg the day he’d arrived at the boarding house for his muscles to have given out. 

Carwood stands, picking up the insignificant weight of the tiny blue-gray cat, its affronted _meow_ melting into a purr as Carwood runs a firm hand down its back. 

“Are you keeping it?” Speirs asks. 

Carwood looks up to find Speirs too close for comfort. The fan of dark lashes emphasizes the flecks of green in his eyes and Lip’s breath stops in his throat. Thankfully, Speirs misses it as he reaches out and rubs a gentle finger over the kitten’s head. He reminds Carwood of the etched angels in stained glass windows — otherworldly and oh-so-lovely. Then Speirs’s cynical gaze lifts to his and Carwood amends his thoughts -- an angel, yes, but a fallen one. “It may belong to someone,” he responds after a too-long pause.

Speirs raises an eyebrow. “This bedraggled, half-starved thing?”

Lip looks at the cat more closely. “Good point.” He holds his hand out and the kitten climbs up his arm, then leaps onto Speirs’s shoulder, purring and nuzzling against his cheek. 

“He better not have fleas,” Speirs grumbles, pulling the cat off and handing it back to Carwood.

“If he does, you’ll be the first to know,” he says with a grin, chuckling at Ron’s grimace.

The sound of tires on gravel makes them both turn. Benny’s Ford trudges down the road toward the house as he practically hangs out the window, grinning and waving. “Carwood! I’ve got some news!”

“For you or the entire town?” Ron mutters next to him. 

Lip throws him an exasperated look. “Play nice.”

“I don’t play at all.”

“That explains everything, actually,” he says and Ron grins, shark-like. “What’s the news, Ben?” he calls out as Benny hits the brakes and leaps out of the car.

“I didn’t think you’d heard yet. Guess who just got back into town today?” Ben pauses at the sight of the kitten Lipton holds and shakes his head hopelessly. “Another one, huh? I’m surprised you haven’t been overrun by now.” 

Lip shrugs. “I find them homes.” He holds out the tiny, squirming bundle. “How do you feel about cats?”

Next to him, Ron snorts.

“It’s not so much how I feel about them as how they feel about my three dogs,” Benny returns with a grin. He glances curiously at Speirs and Carwood turns to him.

“Benny, this is Ron Speirs. Ron, this is my friend Ben Walker.”

Ben and Ron shake hands and Ron offers Ben a cigarette, which Benny takes gladly. 

“Guess quitting isn’t working out that well,” Carwood comments, watching him light up.

“It’s working out perfectly,” Ben disagrees, winking conspiratorially at Ron, “I quit every two months on schedule.”

“So, who’s in town?” Carwood asks. 

“Little Eddie Brae, you remember him? He’s on leave and a group of us are gonna take him drinking before he heads back to kill more Krauts,” Benny says cheerfully. 

Lip cringes internally and looks at Ron out of the corner of his eye, but the man is expressionless, only reaching over to pet the kitten once again. Carwood clears his throat, “Sure, that sounds good.”

“Don’t it?” Benny nods at Ron, “You’re welcome too, of course. Come have a beer tonight, nine p.m. at O’Flannery’s.”

Ron makes a noncommittal noise, not bothering to glance up and Benny shrugs after a moment, hopping back in his truck. “I’ll see you there, Lip. Don’t adopt any more critters in the meantime, ya hear?”

Lip huffs and waves. “Will you come?” he asks Ron, watching as the Ford lumbers down the road. 

Ron sighs and two of his fingers brush the back of Carwood’s hand as he strokes the kitten. It’s an accident, that’s all, but Lip’s skin tingles all the same. Then it happens again and a third time and Lip glances at Ron whose bright, intense gaze is focused entirely on him. “If you want me.”

Carwood swallows and takes a step back when he spots one of the tenants come out onto the porch. “Yes,” he whispers, like he’s answering an entirely different question and the glitter in Ron’s eyes makes him cut his losses and hightail it back into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Let me know if you're enjoying it, comments give me life! :D

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked the first chapter! Let me know your thoughts! <3


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